Page 2 of An Invitation to the Kennedys
She thought of telling him about the Italian man this morning and the way his eyes had slid over her, not for a moment matching her with the girl who had been at dinner in pearls and black chiffon the night before.But she didn’t.It was hard to know how her father might take this.Would he think it funny, as she did, that she could still slip between being a young lady and almost a child; invisible, ignored?Or would he be annoyed by some failure on her part that he saw and she didn’t?A failure to be attractive enough?Distinct enough?Kennedy enough?
It was too lovely, she thought, being without her mother or her older brothers, to risk it.This was the first time she had had so much of her father’s attention – the thing that was as precious as sunlight, made to spread among them all, with the lion’s share always going to Joe Jnr and Jack.Shared too with her mother; with the many men who admired and wanted to be close to him; and the women who wanted something else from him, though Kick wasn’t exactly sure what.To be noticed, she supposed.Same as she did.
‘Eunice asked me what we would do in England,’ she said, getting up and pouring a cup of coffee from the silver pot that stood on a tray and adding a splash of cream.‘I told her, pretty much the same as we do at home.But what will you do?’She was genuinely curious.His appointment sounded so grand.Had been greeted by so much excitement – and relief, she thought – at home; a thing long wanted that had come to pass.But what was it, exactly, apart from a ‘great honour’, as everyone assured one another?
‘I will keep America out of another war,’ he said, putting aside the pages he had been reading and looking up at her so that the light from his desk lamp glared on the round glass of his spectacles.He looked like a man with shiny silver dollars for eyes.‘I will steer us clear of the quagmire England is sinking herself into.And if I can, I’ll help to pull her out.Europe stands on the edge of another war.One false step and she will fall into that abyss.And it is an abyss, make no mistake.’He held up a finger.‘Even though not everyone can see that.There are men who would push for those last critical steps.Who would force their way to war.They refuse to see that compromise with Germany, even at this stage, is possible and desirable.Some are moved by idiotic thoughts of glory, or by shame at what they call England’s appeasement.But to say that peace is “shameful” is something I’ll never understand …’ He paused a moment, honestly baffled.‘Some are moved by confusion over what’s right.But others again are more cynical – they see the personal opportunities in war.I’m here to stop all of that.’
‘But can you?’
‘I can.Not even the most belligerent want England to enter a war without America at her back.’He sounded amused.‘As long as I can keep Roosevelt from committing troops or money, even the ardent advocates for war with Hitler will think twice.’
How magnificent he sounded, Kick thought.There with the ship rolling beneath them and his sense of purpose like the engines that propelled them forward, it was like he spoke straight out of one of the Hollywood films he used to produce.He would succeed, she knew it.He succeeded at everything.
‘Will you help me?’he said then, putting out a hand for hers and pulling her forward so that she put down her coffee cup on the green leather of his desk, spilling a little into the saucer, and leaned against the side of his high-backed chair.
‘By being careful to say “shall” and not “will”?’she joked.She was shy of him, and didn’t know what else to say.
‘By being yourself.’He ignored her joke and spoke seriously.
‘Will they like me, do you think?’It was what she had been secretly thinking ever since she first heard of the trip.
‘Yes.I’m sure of it.’She felt his approval warm upon her; light and heat and dazzle.But he hadn’t finished.‘But just remember, you are American.Not English.There could be no finer example of what it is to be American than you and your sisters and brothers.’His approval, as ever, came with conditions.
‘OK.’She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but it was safer to pretend she did.‘You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.Where are we now?’she asked then, watching the square of clear blue that was the cabin window behind him moving in a way that was steady and slow.Until you looked down at the rapid roll and curl of the waves.
‘About halfway between America and England; more than a thousand miles of ocean on either side.’
Chapter Two
London, Summer 1938
Honor
It was her own fault, Honor thought, when her husband Chips came upon her in the library.She should have gone up as soon as she came home.Should have been safe in her room, behind the pretence of sleep, by the time he came back.But she had found the sandwiches Andrews had left in the library, and a decanter of wine, and then a novel she had borrowed from the lending library,Rebecca; brand new and ‘simply thrilling’ according to cousin Oonagh.
It had been such a dull evening.A ball, quite in the old manner, with ancient royals in dusty knee breeches and tiresome formalities around supper, so that Honor had eaten almost nothing, so determined was she to avoid the sycophantic line of nodding and smiling ball-goers.Even among them, her husband had stood out for the depth of his nod, the broadness of his smile.All around she had seen gnarled hands, cold and stiff, winking harsh diamonds and precious stones under swollen knuckles.When had they all got so old?
She had left early, coming home alone.And then she had sat beside the fire in the library, planning to read only a few pages while she ate the sandwiches.But she had drunk a glass of wine, and kept reading, and now it was after four in the morning according to the dusty bong of the library clock, and here was Chips, swaying slightly in the doorway.
‘Darling!What a pleasant surprise.’
‘I was just going up,’ Honor said hastily, marking her place and putting the book down.
‘Don’t.Stay.I will ring for more sandwiches and we can have a lovely talk.’
‘It’s too late, Chips.The servants are all in bed.’
‘Well then I will wake them,’ he said peevishly.She could hear the brandy in his voice, thickening the vowels.‘They are my servants.’He rang the bell and asked a sleepy footman to ‘bring another plate of sandwiches.Bring some of that fruit cake too.’Then, ‘Wasn’t it a delightful evening?’he asked, crossing to the high-winged armchair opposite her and sinking into it.
‘No,’ Honor said.‘Deathly, I thought.’
Nevertheless he began to dissect the night, just as he always did.‘Lady Furness can’t think much of our hostess if she only wore hersecondnecklaces,’ he said, ‘she has far better pieces than that.’He was, she had discovered, particularly clever at deciphering jewellery – finding meaning in the stones their friends chose to wear; the when and how of a brooch or a set of earrings.
The sleepy footman brought sandwiches.Honor thought how much she would have loved a cup of tea, but decided it would be unfair to ask.‘Do go to bed, Robert,’ she said.
The light from the fire fell on Chips’ face, burnishing his broad forehead and straight nose.He was still handsome, she thought, but – like all aging beauties – now only in certain lights.Daylight, morning especially, was cruel to him, showing the pouches beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin and lines about his mouth that spoke of disappointment.But there, lit by soft flames, with the glow of brandy still in him, and the excitement of a topic close to his heart, he seemed, again, the man she had married five years ago: smooth with the confidence of his own good looks, lit by purpose and certainty.
‘Did you see how the Duchess of Gloucester has already the royal trick of never sitting down?’he asked eagerly.He loved these after-sessions almost as much as the parties themselves.Once she had been happy to turn it all over with him, cut the deck a thousand different ways to see how the cards would fall.But not anymore.
